


our elastic hearts rubberband back to the start

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Season/Series 05, hint of freakytits, hint of fridget
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 16:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11902080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: A bottle of wine shared by two lonely women in the midst of their heartbreak; what could possibly go wrong?





	our elastic hearts rubberband back to the start

**Author's Note:**

> Personally, I adored their friendship, but wanted to explore something a bit deeper.

Love tends to be the most fatal blow.

Remnants of Franky linger in her home. Her perfume clings to Bridget's wardrobe, to her upholstery. An eyeliner pencil rests on the sink's marble counter. At the offense, she laughs until she cries.

Bridget Westfall miserably dwells on this heartbreak that eats her alive from the inside out.

In her gloom, she deviates from the fashionable and opts in for comfortable. She wears a loose fitting t-shirt featuring a hair metal band with some short shorts. Still, she hears Franky's voice, cheeky and colorful.

_"Poison, Gidget? Might as well call 'em Cyanide; their music's a killer!"_

_In earnest, Bridget delivered a playful shove before kissing her girl on the lips._

All of that's gone now.

She turns on the tele. Immediately, her thumb falls onto the clicker. Switches off the news covering a disaster. Some old comedy marathons on the screen, but she isn't really watching. Her eyes glaze over, as though her whole world's on fire again.

Bridget brings one of the sofa's pillows close to her chest. Crimson. It presses into her chest. Replaces her heart with this veritable softness. Her fingers curl into the pillow until it's a lumpen, misshapen mess.

At the door, there's a knock. The buzzer rings.

On her porch, there stands Wentworth's Governor. Vera Bennett is a fine wisp of a woman. What she lacks in size, she makes up for in fortitude.

Bridget knew not the soft, meek thing she used to be. She bore witness to Ferguson's conditioning and how she broke free from the mold. Vera saved herself.

To this day, Bridget admires that quality about her.

"Vera," she greets her amicably enough with her hand upon the doorknob.

"I thought you could use some company. Quite honestly, so could I,” Vera chimes in.

With a bottle of Pinot Noir, the mousy brunette holds the liquor up as a peace offering. Gradually, she grants this woman – her confidante and friend – entrance. Steps aside for Vera to scurry inside.

"I do,” Bridget asserts with a cheek smile, pretending that everything is as right as rain.

Although Bridget resigned, they remain good friends. A few text messages serve as sworn fealty. Sometimes, a telephone conversation is throne into the mix. With their busy, chaotic lives, they can hardly find the time to connect.

Until now.

She takes the bottle from Miss Bennett whose diamond eyes wander about the den. Does she detect envy? No, it's a silent sort of wonder that's better left unaddressed.

To the kitchen, the blonde retreats. After uncorking the bottle, she sets it on the coffee table.

"Let me fetch us some glasses, hm?" She calls out from the other room. The bangle around her wrist chimes, the necklace around her neck (a gift from Franky) bangs against her chest.

Loneliness brings the lonely together. Uncorked and open, she makes her return.

Tired and worn women still standing finally collapse. Relenting, they fall onto the sofa. Bridget tucks in her knees close to her chest. She pours them both a generous glass.

"You're safe here," she asserts, unable to abandon her caretaker mold.

"Please..." Vera begins. "Don't ever say that again."

There's a hurt shining in Vera's eyes that matches her own. The orchestration of her relationship with Jake Stewart teeters on the edge of defenestration.

Vera Bennett is an open book. Despite the fact, Bridget finds herself reading in between the lines.

"He was _using_ me. Jake wanted those bloody crowns, not me, not my **love**."

The lines on her forehead gather most prominently. She tilts her head back to drain nearly half the concern. In concern, Bridget watches this eminent self-destruction.

"Did you love Jake?" She asks, her voice soft, attempting to refrain from piling on the pressure. Lord knows that Vera deals with that plenty at Wentworth.

Vera pauses, her thumb idly caressing the stem of her glass.

"No. He made me feel safe, but... it was the sensation of a warm body next to mine that I craved."

"You loved _her_."

It was a sick admission of guilt.

Her loyalty would always bring her back to the once impervious Joan Ferguson. A cool palm encompasses half of her face, a phantom mask. Her elbow rests on the armchair. Vera laughs, tart and broken. She wants to cry. She wants to throw herself before the Devil's feet. Chewing on her bottom lip, she nods.

"I did, didn't I?"

_I loved her. I love her. I will always love her despite hating her._

For once, witticism fails the forensic psychologist. She lowers her head, her mouth occupied by the rim of her glass.

Vera shakes her head, unable to make sense of her feelings that rubberband her back to the start. Her career's in shambles, but she needn't see it. Upon her face, it's as clear as day.

Dr. Westfall lowers her cup. Crystal clinks against the coffee table that collects rings from carelessness. Cautiously, she leans forward – detaches herself from Franky's smarmy smile, Franky's jade stare, Franky's quips.

Rather than moving in for a kiss, she ceases all movement. Wets her lips.

Vera Bennett is pretty in the plain sort of way, beautiful in her heartbreak and simultaneous strength that has built her into what she is today, but she isn't Franky Doyle.

Nor will she ever be.

Quietly, Bridget tucks a loose strange of hair behind Vera's ear.

"I'm sorry. I'm projecting." Bridget replies in the palpable silence that conveys their anguish.

“Aren't we both?”

With a brittle smile, Vera responds.

The remainder of their glasses goes untouched.

She rests her weary head in Bridget's lap. The blonde combs her fingers through her hair that now runs wild and free.

It's a warm, comforting touch.

Lapsed into a bout of silence, their wounds take time to heal.

 


End file.
